


Play-acting

by possessedradios



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Found Family - Dysfunctional Flavor, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, SI-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: Ringing her superior's door bell at 3 am in the morning probably isn't one of Maxwell's best life choices, but then again, Jacobi's are even worse, in her opinion.





	Play-acting

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy, this was written for theimpossumblepossum on tumblr, who sent me the prompt "I want an answer, goddammit!" for Kepler and Maxwell. It got way longer than anticipated, so I decided to post it here.
> 
> Angsty, dysfunctional SI-5 is about 90% of my life, and the Maxwell-Kepler-relationship is super fascinating.   
> (Although I'm super happy they had amazing, fluffy moments, as shown in the Mission Mishaps.)

Maxwell has made it one of her tasks to analyze people she’s regularly interacting with - she’s not good at understanding why humans react the way they do; she doesn’t get emotions most of the time, not while in the moment, so instead she strives to understand the people present in her life as a whole. It makes existing much easier - knowing what to do, how to act, who to be.

She likes to think she’s good at it. It’s like picking apart a particularly difficult code - not as exciting or beautiful, but the process is basically the same. Observing, recognizing and understanding patterns, laying it all out.

It’s an art form, of sorts, one she has mastered because she had to in order to not stand out too much. (Not that she would have minded, but the thing about living is that there’s always other people involved, and other people tend to have expectations-)

Anyway-

She analyzes people, and she likes to think that she’s good at it.

Rachel Young? Easy. Don’t talk back, be polite but not submissive, she’s competent and in charge and wants it acknowledged - something Maxwell can relate to - don’t fuck up, act in the company’s best interest. Follow that, and you’ll get along with her. (She doesn’t know how Kepler managed to fuck this up, if even she can strike up a short conversation by the coffee machine without Ms. Young yelling at her.)

Even Mr. Cutter is easy. Answer his questions in a direct way. Don’t beat around the bush. Don’t lie (he’ll know, anyway). Say yes when he asks you whether he can refer to you with your first name. Follow his orders to a T, keep his deadlines, and for the love of God, don’t interrupt him. (Don’t question his smile, or his sunny demeanor, that too, but that’s just a personal rule, one Maxwell follows so she can sleep at night.)

Warren Kepler- Well. That’s where it gets complicated. She doesn’t understand him, never manages to get a grasp on him. He’s- impatient, unforgiving, demanding, always pushing pushing pushing, but then he’s also ridiculous stories and quick smiles and approving looks when she’s certain she fucked up and- He doesn’t make sense. She likes a challenge, but not like that, not when said challenge makes her feel on edge constantly, struggling for approval, trying out different behaviors, none of which ever seem to satisfy him wholly. She doesn’t know what he wants from her, doesn’t know how he expects her to act and react. Major Warren Kepler is an enigma. 

Jacobi, in contrast, is ridiculously easy. She doesn’t even have to analyze. Sure, he’s talking to her, trusts her, calls her his best friend, his sister, so that makes it extra easy, but even without all this, it would still be child’s play. He’s carrying his heart on his sleeve, wrapped in thirty-seven layers of sarcasm to conceal how much of it has been torn to pieces and crudely stitched back together. Everyone, she’s sure, can see that.

That’s the reason she’s standing in front of Kepler’s house at 2:48 in the morning, ringing the door bell for the third time. She shivers, because it’s November and she’s only wearing her pajamas, but she’s too angry to care; if she gets sick, _really_ sick, she can stay home and doesn’t have to look at Kepler for a few days.

She’s close to pressing the finger down a fourth time when the door is being shoved open.

“Doctor Maxwell,” he says, and he doesn’t sound surprised at all, and he somehow manages to look perfectly awake and composed, manages to not look out of place, even in t-shirt and boxers, and honestly, she could have gone without that image, “you should move your car. This spot is reserved for-”

Really, she wants to say, really - it’s freezing and it’s almost 3 in the morning and I’m wearing sleeping clothes with Bugs Bunny on it, and that’s what you choose to comment on?

His lips twitch into a smirk, as if he could read her mind, and she stares at him defiantly, not reacting to his words, and he steps aside, a wordless invitation she follows after another second.

The hallway is dark. He gestures her into his kitchen, and she looks around, notices polished, stainless steel and the dinner table that, she’s sure, cost him more than half the worth of her entire interior furnishing (not that Goddard didn’t pay well, she just doesn’t see the point, spending money on beds and tables and chairs as long as the ones she already has are okay to use), and suddenly she feels intimidated, and she wonders whether this was a bad idea, and-

“Care for a cup of coffee?”

-oh, okay, no, his voice has her on the edge again immediately, this was definitely a good idea.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, full force, she can will herself to not overthink her words a thousand times, and that’s what she’s doing now.

He looks at her for two seconds, three, four. “Weeeell,” he then says. “Offering coffee to visitors … is a common sign of hospita-”

“Oh, shut it!” 

This ‘not thinking before talking’ thing might work a little too well, because Kepler crosses his arms and looks momentarily annoyed, and everything inside of her tells her to back off, to shy away. She forces herself to stay put, tilts her face slightly upwards. 

“Doctor … Maxwell. Watch. Your. Mouth.”

That, she knows. She relaxes. She might not get him as a person, but she has studied his expressions and his tone, and that’s still okay, she’s still safe, he might look a little annoyed, but he’s not angry, he’d sound different if he was.

“Major Kepler,” she says, a little calmer now, no less demanding, “why are you doing this?”

“I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” he says, “how do you know my address?”

Maxwell watches him as he opens a cupboard, turns on his coffee machine. “Jacobi,” she says.

“Are you answering my question or elaborating on yours?”

Her hands clench into fists by her side, and she feels goddamn insulted by the way he so nonchalantly admits that he knows what this is about, because of course he does, it’s rude and she feels so _helpless_ , and she answers through gritted teeth, “Both.”

He doesn’t react to that. Instead, he hands her one of the cups. She takes it, automatically, and then drinks, because she doesn’t know what else to do or say, right now. He knows why she’s here - he should be the one talking, now. He should be apologizing, or at least dignify her with an explanation. Part of her knows that this is ridiculous - that this is nothing he will do; that she’s not worthy of this, in his eyes. Some other part of her notices that the coffee’s very good.

Kepler’s looking at her. Instead of talking, or apologizing, or explaining, he’s looking at her. Just that. Standing there, looking at her. Maxwell stares back for a while, stubborn and still angry, until she decides that this is childish - she sighs, exasperated, and puts the coffee cup down on the table. 

“You know, Major Kepler, what happened to me at one o’clock in the morning?” She forces her voice into a light, over-the-top cheery tone.

“No, Doctor Maxwell. Indulge me? Was it something … _fun_?”

“Oh, that’s a matter of perspective!” She’s smiling - and it’s almost too easy, they’re both following some kind of fucked up script now, she can see the silent processes behind their exchanged lines. _Play-acting_ , that’s what this is now, and if he really wants to act as if he doesn’t know what’s going on, she’ll indulge him alright. Play-acting, she’s good at. When she has to be. 

“See, I was in my living room, watching Cutthroat Kitchen, already,” she gestures down at herself, “ready for bed, when someone rang my door bell.”

“Exciting.”

“Mmhm. I opened the door, and - Major, do you know who was standing there?”

“Oh, I can make an educated guess.” He’s smiling again.

“ _Please_ do, sir.”

“Well.” He tilts his head. “If I take into consideration … that you told me … that it was Mister Jacobi who gave you my address … I think I can safely assume-”

-and she almost tells him to fucking _spit it out already_ , all the world might be a stage, but this is his kitchen and it’s past three in the morning and she’s tired, and his affected way of speaking isn’t even funny when she has a _good_ day.

“Correct,” she says. “It was _Daniel_.”

“How nice of him to visit.”

“Very drunk.”

“Mmhm.”

“Completely _fine_ , as he assured me.”

“I see.”

“He’s asleep now, in my bed, after throwing up all over my _fucking carpet_.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, sir! Ah!”

Silence, and then some more silence. He drinks his coffee and keeps watching her with a look of, she thinks, trained indifference on his face.

This time, she refuses to speak, about ready to spend the whole night in his kitchen if he doesn’t go ahead and say _something_.

After a few more seconds, he does.

“And this concerns me … how, exactly?” His voice portrays the same as his face - nothing.

“Sir.” She takes a deep breath. “Sir, your private life is none of my business, and please believe me when I tell you I’d live happily without any knowledge of it whatsoever, but, as things are- Why do you _keep doing this_?”

“This same question again,” he sighs. “Care to be more specific?”

“Major Kepler! Please! I want an answer, goddammit! Why in the world are you sleeping with your subordinate?!” On any other day, she’d maybe - maybe - be able to see the humor in the sheer absurdity of this question - the fact that he made her say this out loud - but it’s tonight, and she’s tired, and her carpet is ruined. “Frankly, Major, I’ve had enough. You don’t deserve Jacobi. He’s too good for you, and we both know it.”

This, finally, provokes a reaction. He raises an eyebrow and sets down his cup. “Excuse me?”

“With all due respect, sir, Jacobi adores you! He looks up to you! Isn’t it enough that he follows you blindly, that he’d do anything - everything - for you? Do you really, _really_ have to go further? Is it a problem you have with your ego, sir - is it too big, or too fragile? Can I _help_? If I tell you how great you are, if I actually start listening to your stories, will you…”

She trails off, abruptly, because Kepler’s expression has changed, and she’s- She’s taking this too far, she can see it - it’d be hard not to notice even for her; she can read it in the way his eyes feel on her, cold and hard dark steel, and it’s way, way worse because he’s smiling again. She suddenly feels very small, she’s still angry, but helplessly so now, and she takes a step back without thinking about it, against her will. “I…” She swallows hard. “Sir,” God, she hates her voice like that-

“ _With all due respect_ , Doctor Maxwell, you were exactly right: All of this … is none … of your business. _Don’t make it yours._ ” 

There’s different words behind those. Threats and pulling ranks and _really, Doctor Maxwell, if you’ve got a death wish, feel free to continue talking to me like that_. 

Maxwell’s voice sounds horrible weak as she speaks again. “I just can’t _stand_ to see Jacobi like that, you have no idea how often he shows up at my place like that, and he- If you really have to- Why do you throw him out afterwards every time, this isn’t…” She trails off again, because she’s really, really being ridiculous now - of course it isn’t fair, but why should this bother Kepler?

He’s still looking at her, and the atmosphere shifts - she’s more submissive now, less aggressive, and that’s seemingly enough already - he’s calm again. And yet, suddenly the eye contact is too much, and she looks away and turns around and grits her teeth as she remembers how he had mentioned once, in passing, that _avoiding eye contact is considered rude by most, Maxwell_. She’s very, very tired. 

“I’ll leave,” she says. “Thank you for the coffee and your time and the … absolutely pointless conversation.” _I’m sorry for assuming you might be able to find an emotion or two somewhere inside of you,_ she doesn’t say.

She’s already at the door when he calls her back.

“Maxwell.”

She freezes.

“I didn’t throw him out.” 

Part of her is busy storing away the fact that he called her Maxwell, as opposed to ‘Doctor Maxwell’ for later analysis. Then she registers his words.

“... What?” She slowly turns her head to look at him again. He’s holding his coffee cup again, and there’s the hint of a smile on his face.

“I didn’t. Throw him out,” he repeats pointedly. “Mister Jacobi left after I offered him he could stay for the night.”

Her head runs the analysis, quickly, automatically, laying out all her understanding of Jacobi. Yes, she decides. Jacobi did that. Kepler isn’t lying.

_Goddammit, Daniel._

She sighs, struggles with finding the right words to react to that for a moment. Then she remembers all the other times Jacobi showed up at her place, or texted her at two in the morning, ‘I’m in love with Major Kepler and it’s pretty much destroying me, it’s pretty much everything that’s holding me together; you can’t do that, you can’t fix me, no matter how hard you try, it’s always Kepler when it comes down to it’ between the lines of every snarky, sarcastic text he sent- She shrugs a little bit. “Does it really make a difference?”

“I don’t know,” he says, slowly, still smiling. “Does it?” _You’re so intelligent, go figure it out_ , he doesn’t say, but it’s somewhere in there, some kind of innuendo that’s perverted in a way Maxwell didn’t know words could be. He’s afraid of her, she thinks. Sometimes she really thinks that. Because she’s smart, _so intelligent_. Broken, sure, she will admit that, but not as easy manipulated as Jacobi is. 

“... Good night,” she says.

“Good night, Doctor Maxwell. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It occurs to her, while driving back, that there’s a very simple explanation as for why she ‘doesn’t get him as a person’ - he isn’t one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @possessed-radios on tumblr, and my podcast sideblog is @shortwaveattentionspan. ... So. Finale Day, huh?


End file.
